He does get to touch the pony, which almost makes up for the fact he's resisting the impulse to return her once-over; she holds herself like she's accustomed to command, but she looks to him like a lady approximately a thousand miles out of his league, and those tend to come with lords willing to cut a man down for looking. The thought she could probably do it herself doesn't make it any easier not to look, which is why he's not thinking it. Right now.

Maybe later.

None of which shows on his very professional expression as he inclines his head and moves past her to inspect the shoes that are there, murmuring a stream of inoffensive banter to the animal as he lifts the hooves up for a look. "You could make these last," he says, critically, "maybe a week, maybe two." A month if she goes easy, yes, but he's assessing her likelihood of doing so in the same breath. He is, he likes to think, a pretty good judge of people. "I'd reckon you shouldn't try it, though. New shoes'd be better for him." Yes they would, look at you, you gorgeous animal. Aren't you beautiful. Yes you are.

(He doesn't ride much, but he likes horses.)

"I can do it for you."